


Stone

by pGblade



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band), more to come - Fandom, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Period Piece, Tribal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 09:23:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8396245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pGblade/pseuds/pGblade
Summary: He had earned his pack, small and fragile as it was... cobbled the entire pack from odds and ends into what was now named Stone Clan. He’d hated the name for its simplicity, feeling personally slighted by the cluster of ageless Seers on the high mountain, but by the time he had left eerie glow of the room behind, he supposed it suited them. Unbreakable. Impenetrable. Eternal. Now was as good a time as any to test their loyalty to that name. And to him.





	1. Chapter 1

He had earned his pack, small and fragile as it was. The alpha bristled in the darkness, rain spattering against his arms, deep brown and long against the trees that hid most of them dutifully. Nearly all of them were sunkissed to some degree, so the pitch and silt mixture smeared on their faces and necks hid them from eye well enough, and from nose even better. The outsider, untouched by father sun like a prize omega, had drawn forth a burst of their Apothecary’s bright laughter at the suggestion of making enough of the redolent mixture for him. Instead he was swathed in the most of the roughspun cloth that Taehyung could pull from his clumsy self-built loom, and thus his pale skin was sheltered from the rain more than any. Though their differences went deeper than appearance and he was a surly little man at best, even Namjoon could admit it wasn't entirely fair to name him Outsider, given that he’d cobbled the entire pack from odds and ends into what was now named Stone Clan. He’d hated the name for its simplicity, feeling personally slighted by the cluster of ageless Seers on the high mountain, but by the time he had left eerie glow of the room behind, he supposed it suited them. Unbreakable. Impenetrable. Eternal. Now was as good a time as any to test their loyalty to that name. And to him. He turned his head, soft grass headdress soundless against the heavy evening storm. A break in the clouds showed the moon, and she caressed the faintest lines of his small group so that he might count them. No deserters yet- 5 pairs of dark eyes on him while Yoongi’s, empty and staring out from that moon-pale dish of his face, were trained on the valley stretching below them.

"This will work." His gravelly tone crawled out into the darkness, while his body shifted under the bow on his back and the shuttered lantern he cradled in his arms too closely. Nervously. Hushed voices piped in the black, excitement vibrating through them.

"They will see this for miles." The familiar, gentle timbre of their Apothecary, awe and fear.

"Stone Clan will be immortal." His Warchief's grating baritone, high and near squeaking with a giddiness Namjoon couldn't relate to. He did not crave battle in the same way. He hoped none of them did.

"How do we stop it?" The soft high tenor of his smallest Warrior, worry edging in, darting a look to the Outsider and his lamp, who returned the look with the flat expression he commanded as his most favored weapon.

"We don't."

Namjoon lunged forward and started their descent before that thought could push any further.

Four Warriors were not many, but in a clan of 7 they numbered well enough. Maybe more, considering. He wasn't the most skilled fighter, but there might not be an alpha among all those living that was not, in some way, a warrior. His mind raced as his body did, forming that thought into a worrying one, for his pack's future. His youngest two, sliding by on their heels on either side of him, matched grins as they bounded and flowed between the trees, both yet to express any rank. He and Yoongi had agreed immediately that their youngest would express as Alpha anytime, but it was too soon to tell what lay hidden in the four corners of the other’s grin. He figured Beta, but Yoongi would only give that look, the brief relaxation of his mask, that served as his smile. The Outsider's strange scent had never lent any clue to his orientation, nor did his mannerisms, or the blank eyes that briefly touched his as he slid ahead as well. Typically, Namjoon would not have placed him in the vanguard with the Warriors, preferring to keep him and his sharp mind nearby where they could whisper strategy (in addition to intellect, they shared being near-worthless in close combat, though Jimin was doing his best to rectify this. It galled Namjoon that the smaller man was the superior, so far), but this night was special. Newly Named and full of hubris, he'd decided they would claim their territory then and there, storm be damned, to shouts of approval. Drunk on the freedom of cutting all ties to their old packs, freeing them from settling near any fatherlands, Namjoon had steered his six to the hills.

Strategically, the valley was immaculate - a wide dip of land like a giant's thumb pressed into the jagged mountains, a peaceful village here and there, knolls and fields, surrounded by sharp cliffs on nearly every side. With sentries, even the steep, rocky trail from which they advanced could be guarded. There were lands at the mouth of the mountains, there to the South, that would suit any of their own splinter groups well. (And what names would those claim? Stone Lantern Clan? Stone Blade Clan? Or worse, Stone Moon Clan? He knew his pride would never suffer such a laughably predictable name, and mentally steeled himself for that conversation, hoping he would be a strong enough Alpha to deny whatever would-be lord that tried to make such a blunder.) As his mind wandered, they closed on the small group of huts huddling beneath the trees.

“There.” The smallest Warrior’s soft squeak came from where he was pressed behind a tree, flanked by the youngest two, who had already gained height on the lad. His eyes were just shy of wild, caged by sopping locks gone blood red with rain, already drying under the cover of the great trees. Just as he'd said, the huts were slapdash, hardly more than lean-tos, but had stone reinforcements and some leisurely accommodations- a marked well, herbs growing in pots outside. “They're all here.” Namjoon found Hoseok, three trees ahead, who motioned the signal for 12. The boy was right, his nose was very good. All six pairs of eyes were on him. A moment's hesitation could cost him everything.

“Let's go.”

*** * ***

 

Jimin and the other warriors unsheathed their swords, crept forward silently, and barred the exits with their blades through all three sets of padlock bars. He placed small mounds of pitch and deadbrush in the corners of his assigned building, even though it scared him very much. Secretly, Taehyung had to come and place the ones near the door, because he couldn’t do it. He was proud of himself for not shaking, at least. Namjoon had said he didn’t have to go, but he’d wanted to, really. He knew better than anybody why these beasts deserved this, and Taehyung had promised him that Jimin would do to them worse than anything they’d ever done to him. He’d followed that promise (and that pretty nose) into unknowing darkness and now they were back, together as real brothers in a real clan. That perfect nose didn’t crinkle with a smile like usual when it turned to him; Taetae smelled weird under Seokjin’s gross body paint. He smelled as scared as Jimin felt, and Tae almost never smelled scared. They both turned to the Alpha, who gave the signal once the others were finished. The Outsider came over and opened the shutters of his lamp just a crack, and they all pushed in shoulders-close to hide the light. Everyone took turns putting little bundles of bark to the steady flame, then poked the fuses straight up into every heap of kindling. Withdrawing, Jimin watched as color bloomed in the darkness from each merry little fire, and cries went up from inside the shelters, cursing and rattling doors pushed aside by screams and shouts of terror. One or two of the monsters managed to break free once the dead wood of their shelters was burned through, howling and burning and smelling like pig, looking like fire come alive and dancing. Tae and the others dispatched these quickly and simply, blades careful and flashing bright in flames wicking along burning limbs. Behind him he found the Alpha and Outsider and Apothecary, faces hard, blank, and fearful, respectively, then ran towards them with his blade out. He heard Tae shout as his own feet left the ground in front of the smallest of the three, clear over him, coming down blade-first on the figure behind him. The monsters’ sentry, dumb thing, had come instead of abandoning his pack, just as Jimin said he would. He was proud to have handled it himself. When morning came his old Clan was gone, and the sky had seen fit to contain the fire to the huts and the ancient, dead pines they cowered beneath. With the smell of burning flesh and bone and blood on the wind, Jimin pulled his blackened sword from the ashes, looked up through the gutted carcasses of the great trees, closed his eyes, and smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

Of the 3 clans on the floodplains, Clan Spring Howl was by far the strangest. They were led by a tiny man who, for all intents and purposes, was an even tinier version of Min Yoongi. He heard Hoseok stifle a laugh, but the copy was just as dour as the other, weathering the slight with a level look. His group was motley and small, with two beautiful creatures who must have been omegas, a round and jolly looking boy who could barely contain wide-eyed excitement, and a thin scarecrow of a man for whom eyes were like rain off a feather. Like peripheral vision, it seemed that every time Namjoon tried to find him, he was somewhere else, hooked nose and toothy smile vanished. A strange and fearsome talent to have. 

Clan Spring Swift was very much their namesake - lanky and long bodies in varying heights, all moving with a marked fluidity. There was a mated pair and a boy in addition to their leader, who wasn’t apparent until they halted and their Head stepped into the circle with the smaller Yoongi and himself. Namjoon had assumed the cool regard he got from a sharp-eyed tallest marked the leader, but a ball of energy bounded into the circle instead, with crooked eyes and a smiling mouth full of equally crooked teeth. A hand instantly shot forward for a shake, and Namjoon took it. Such behavior was not traditional, but also not unheard of. More human than hybrid, he wagered. A well-missed and pleasant surprise. 

Clan Spring Fang was just as easily identifiable. Bulkier and altogether large, there was a feral edge to the way they slunk up to the circle, rolling muscles in their shoulders, a heavy set to every brow. Their leader was not the largest, but he was the most stout and by far the most muscular- with a hodgepodge of features pressed into a wedge face that had seen years of battle, pummeled out of place and re-set more than a few times. There was an electric taste in the air where his eyes met one of the ephemeral creatures’ from Spring Howl, the one with the long hair. A mating bond broken. Broken? Namjoon strained his senses to gather what information he could, but his focus was clipped by a loud, piping voice. The crooked-eyed wriggler.

“That all of us?” He chirped, a sloppy high tenor. The eyes turned to Namjoon, ever-smiling. “Y’got more comin’ or…?”

“No.” His own voice surprised the other into taking a step back for the depth of it. He knew the boy to be a beta, then. A beta for a leader was another oddity. Now that he looked, the mated pair in his pack were not of the floodlands, too thin in limb for their size, unlike the balanced bulk of the Clan Fang twins. Were they alphas? Were any of them? Thick-neck of their clan certainly was, begrudging as it seemed, as he rumbled to life. 

“Mmm. Let's get on with it, then.” Not as deep a baritone as he'd expected. His windpipe must have been cracked at some point, too, by the scratching in his throat. 

“Right!” The smiling one clapped his hands together with the word, and was scarcely still through the all the words that followed, speaking as much with his gestures as with his clumsy mouth. “The Floodplains welcome you, Stone Clan,” he was earnest and true, scented with citrus and something wild that Seokjin could likely place. “We of the North do, at least! Since you share our border-”

“And ours.” It was the first he'd heard from the sprite, and yet he knew who had spoken. It was the epitome of reasonable- a clear, level tenor, unwavering in pitch or tone. Where Yoongi’s was flat, this one was even. He marveled at the control, though the boy was seething. The spike in the heavy herbal scent filling the clearing was a sure indicator.

“Ah! Right! Jihoonie-” Crooked Smile earned a sharp look from the named, grinned sheepishly, and continued. He had the same power Taehyung did- the charm- and Namjoon knew that this boy’s simple nature could pull salt from the earth or hold sparrows to ground. “Clan Howl is to the North and East, where the brush is much thicker and the ground does not sink.” 

“Your floodplain sinks?” Namjoon was proud that he kept fear from his voice, using only a tone that brooked an answer. Crooked Smile showed his teeth in the first glimpse of Taehyung’s similar madness. 

“Not for everyone.”

“Boastful creature.” The hulking alpha rumbled a laugh. “Soonyounggie’s clan is light of foot and all else. They can keep their swamps. We have marked paths through the mire.” No one missed the pointed use of the beta’s name, but it seemed that no one would challenge it, either. Least of all the beta himself, whose laugh cracked across the clearing in a citrusy wash. Namjoon felt Hoseok somewhere to his left, fern scent rustling meaningfully. 

“Seungchollie defers mention of the path to our Herbalist.” Jihoon, the sprite, made a gesture, and the boy with the sheet of perfect redwood hair stepped forward, beaming prettily, eyes searching Stone Clan’s ranks. Seokjin scrambled forward in a rush of heady lavender to bow his own head in quiet council; naturally, the mingling of his and the sweet prairie rose scent of the Herbalist drew every eye in the clearing. Jihoon cleared his throat, a short grunt, and continued. “Now the matter of the flint deposit in the gulch.” 

Namjoon’s brush fire scent betrayed him, spiking with surprise at the directness, straight to a point he’d intended to skirt. The miasma of intelligence was far more evident around this one than around Yoongi, who everything well. This boy was prideful. Untested. Afraid without showing it, but afraid nonetheless. Yoongi had primed his mind too well for this one to hide a thing from him. He had the advantage. He smiled. 

“There is more than enough flint to carry all of our clans,” he was conversational, downplayed the value of the precious stone, father of arrowhead and quick fire. “The journey we'd need make to retrieve it-”

“-Means you have no flint in your mountains and instead come to poach at our gates.” The challenge was open. This boy was angry. So angry. Why? He'd been perfectly cordial, not a step or of line- Another herbal scent seeped in slowly, this one cold peppermint while the other held a sort of spice. Yoongi, stepping up to his side. Ah.

“We have a claim to that flint.” That haunting low drawl. It was answered with a sound hacked from the little one's throat, the cruel twist to that mouth pulling dimples into his cheeks. 

“Claim is lost when you renounce your clan,” there was something dangerously close to a laugh in that even voice. “Or did you forget that, too, like you forgot you'd bow to no man?” Slitted eyes turned to Namjoon, bitterness glittering in them from his expressionless face. “You let your lessers into the circle? Is this how your Clan is run?”

“He does not bow to me.” Namjoon answered truthfully, retracting his own anger behind a mask of cool. “In my pack we are brothers. We all have a voice.”

“If you won't give it to us, I'll challenge for it.” Yoongi’s cold voice pushed in. Jihoon laughed outright at this, throat clicking in the way that Yoongi’s sometimes did in the snatches that Hoseok or Jimin had wrung out of the man. 

“We both know I've always been the better fighter, hyung.” That last word was nasty. Derisive. An insult. 

“I'll have a champion.” There was no pride, just cold logic. “As you could, as well.”

“Challenge made, martyr named.” The age-old saying fit in every ear like a cushion from a shared home. Yoongi would have to choose his fighter first, for issuing the challenge. He did not look over his shoulder or dart furtive glances at the men behind him in a show of faith and solidarity. Their scents were a cacophony of eager jostling, the promise of a fight vibrating through them all. “Only to first point or down. Clearly your clan cannot spare a life.”

“And yours can?” Namjoon did not mean for his words to be a challenge, and yet they were. Anything said in this circle would have been. He met the boy's eyes with the same hardness, the same cold fire. His youth was palpable. Yoongi’s voice cut between their standoff.

“I name our Warchief. Jung Hoseok.” The clean fern scent drowned out burnt-sugar caramel, wispy coal dust, summer apple, deep chocolate maple, all, as he stepped into the circle with that wild grin of his. His pauldron and sword were cast carelessly to the ground, denting the mud where they fell.

“Then I name our Warchief. Kwon Soonyoung.” There was a smugness in his voice, mocking, dismissive disdain. Everything you couldn't see on the boy's face lived in his words, brighter than festival robes, brighter than blood. A hush claimed the circle as the sandy-haired boy stepped forth, watching Hoseok from beneath his messy fringe.

Their Warchief’s citrus fruit scent dampened, muted itself when he kicked off his soft leather boots. He wore even less armor than Hoseok, though he set to swift work on strap and clasp among anticipatory murmuring. Both men were down to their clothing in short order, and there was a beat where they regarded each other from across the circle, which tightened in around them. Hoseok was the first to remove his tunic, proud to show a strong and sinewy form in wrought copper, wreathed in battle marks of deep violet and scar-pink. Soonyoung moved to match him, exposing muscles spread smoothly across a body of liquid gold, hardly tarnished. Namjoon felt a fist gather his sleeve, and he followed Jimin’s tiny fingers up to his face, then followed his eyes. Up the other Warchief’s forearms and crawling up his legs were layers of whip-thin scars. Hoseok mirrored the other’s movements, rolling up the legs of his trousers to mid-calf. 

“Don’t be afraid,” it was Yoongi’s voice, pitched low for Jimin’s ears but visiting at his own for their closeness. “There're fearsome plants in the floodplains. Sometimes you can avoid them, sometimes you can't. The fastest way is rarely the safest.” 

“He must be really brave.” Was the hushed compliment, dark eyes steely from behind his orange fringe. The answering laugh was silent, but there. 

“But so is Hoseokkie, right?” The quiet thrum and the smile in Tae’s voice made Namjoon proud. His pack. His family.

He wasn't Hoseokkie now, though. Quiet cracked knuckles, unnerving and restless pacing, a hyena caging wary prey. For whatever reason, age or rank or something only folk of their fighting ilk knew, the smaller boy shook dry-hay locks from eyes unlaughing. The focus impressed Namjoon. This boy wore his title rightly. Slowly, he began matching Hoseok’s movements, step by ginger step, until they were pacing around each other, lulled into some strange dance.

The match was as beautiful as it was brutally short. Weary and broken as he was, Hoseok being fresh off of another battle made his sharp senses sharper, and the boy he faced didn't stand a chance. There was cleverness and swiftness, creative twists of evasion and whirling blows, an advantage of home turf beneath his feet... but Hoseok was Hoseok, and he knew movement as the river knows the mountain path. Kwon Soonyoung returned to the earth he came from on his back, and Clan Stone won rights to father fire who lives in rock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set years and years in the past.

“Don't pick me,” the voice from the lowered head was beyond defeated. It was less than that. Ragged and empty, windblown, hardly a whisper. “I won't make you happy.”

“Right he is!” It turned Namjoon’s stomach to watch the slaver card a hand roughly through the boy's auburn hair, fist his fingers, and pull the head back to expose a chicken-thin neck, throat bobbing. He wanted to say he'd seen worse at the city market but, in this moment, he was hard pressed to the truth of that thought. “Does nothin’ but cry, this one. Don't even eat. Worthless. Well. Maybe not a fop like you.” The boy was released forcefully-he fell to the packed dirt of the road in a naked heap. Some dust found its way to Namjoon’s trousers- cut fine but coarsely woven, suitable for the son of a man who owned land- and he made a show of irate disgust. “Good long as he's still warm, eh? Hell, you can have’im if you buy another one. Gonna drop dead soon anyway, I reckon.” Namjoon forced a mild smile onto his face, hoping his teeth weren’t clenched too tightly to speak.

“Have you got any children?”

“Ooh. Sick little fucker, ain't you.” How charming the slaver was. He led Namjoon to a pen made of iron on the back of one of the wagons further up the train, covered loosely with a threadbare cloth. Through the stains, he saw a pale ball huddled in the corner, swirled with filth and bruises. “Only one left. Near on rabid. Damaged a lotta good property on the way in- this here's fer dogs, mind,” He thumped the cage proudly, and chains rattled within. The ball was unmoving. “Real sturdy thing though. Keep trynna put him down in fights with grown folk, but.” He shrugged indicatively, shook his head. “Puttin’ him on dogs, lately, too. Fair kill, every time. Sturdy stuff, these freaks. Fetch a good price.” The tone was leading, sly. Namjoon felt his dimples appearing. 

“Probably not too good a price, considering.” The man clearly did not like being disagreed with, but he was too savvy to ignore Namjoon. He continued. “Sounds to me like he'd be a damn sight cheaper as he is- more trouble to break.” He used their language, a slaver’s lazy drawl, and his words had the desired effect. The oily man’s brow twitched as he continued. “Plus he'll only be any good to you til he's dead. Ain't he?” The man spit on the ground somewhere to the left. “Be hard to find anybody who'll buy him now, round these parts. Seen what he can do, ain’t they?” He tutted, affecting a tragic tone. "Plus, kids, y’know. No trade, got to be taught, protected - got to be invested in.” Namjoon turned his dimples on the man again. “You can see my dilemma.” He thanked every star that he was able to pronounce dilemma incorrectly. Emphasis on the “die.”

There were a few beats and another thick gob of spit while the man considered. His eyes flitted between the cage and Namjoon a few times, calculating, growing more visibly irritated. Then he smiled his cruel smile and shrugged. 

“Dogs’re a better investment, anyway.” He reasoned, scrubbing at the thick stubble on his neck, motioning dismissively. “Good luck getting them home, Monster.” Given that no names had been exchanged and whatever reason the slaver might be thinking for a young man's secret purchase of hybrid boys, the name fit. When the heavy cage door whined dully at being opened by a large man with a stoop, the child started at a hoarse screaming, raw terror mixing with the rattling of chains decoupled from cuffs around his wrists. Namjoon caught a glimpse of scabs on the knobby wrists under those manacles as a second man came and threaded a length of leather through them; evidently, it took a third man's presence to shove the struggling boy to the ground beside the prone form of the first slave. The leather was pulled through the cuffs on that one, too, though the head slaver needed no help there, the weedy arms remaining limp. The child, in contrast, thrashed wildly, bucking under the weight of the laughing first man, near screeching, voice cracking. There was a hawkish nose and large, straight teeth, cracked lips pulled back in a rictus of terror. The greasy slave leader squatted before the boy before striking him calmly in the right temple with the butt of a dagger. The screaming tapered down to strained moans. 

“You been sold, creature,” the man explained, pressing his forefinger and thumb into the hollows of cheeks stained with blood and bruises. No tears. The boy withstood the pressure for but a few moments, mouth cracking open with a weak sound. An old horse's bit was forced in between his teeth and he breathed around it, too hard, dust filling his lungs and causing him to hack coughs. This was the heartfelt goodbye, the slaver pushing to his feet with a tired groan. His men lifted the slaves to stand and Namjoon found two sets of eyes, one dazed and trained on the floor, one meeting his like an animal's, black and feral. The man paced the six feet to Namjoon and handed him the leather thong in exchange for his satchel of coin, quickly counted by the thugs. He nodded a few times and whistled high, the wagons rumbling to life. All departed along the path, jeering “Monster” in their wake. He turned and put distance between himself and them, mind itching with the thought that no number of miles would be ever enough.

He led the two silent boys until the road took a bend, putting a line of trees between them and the slavers’ caravan. He peered through at the distant train of wagons until their shapes were fuzzy and even the lowing of their animals was out of earshot. He'd almost forgotten the slaves he'd just bought, experiencing a slight shock when he turned to find their unfamiliar forms behind him.

“Ah,” Fuck. Not the most inspiring first words. “These things.” He worked on the cuffs around the older boy's wrists, fumbling for the catch that would release them. He laughed nervously to dispel tension, though all the tension came from him. The boy still had his head down, though he was taller than Namjoon. Right. He couldn't very well keep referring to him as ‘the boy.’ The nasty taste of the words he'd said to the slaver lingered in his mouth, and he spoke with pointed clarity when addressing his company. “What's your name?” He didn't hear an answer, only blankness and a failure to meet his eyes. Why wouldn't these damn things come unclasped? There was a grunt to his left, and he saw that the feral youth was watching him with what looked like frustration. The boy turned his back and lifted his own cuffs at a strange angle, skinny arms akimbo, displaying the clasp to his cuffs, just there. Ah. He cursed his clumsy hands, but they found and released the catch on the sickly-thin boy, cheap iron clanking to the ground. Even being freed didn't have an effect; he simply stood in silence. It would take more than a polite conversation to deal with this. He turned to the child, meeting huge black eyes then a pair of knobby shoulderblades, back turned with manacles held out expectantly.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he hoped his voice was soothing rather than as desperate or tense as he felt. “And when I release you, you can run if you want, but I didn't buy you to keep you as slaves-” his speech was oddly received- the boy grunted in frustration, jangled the iron still binding him, “It was originally my intention to free you, you see, as-” the second the clasp came undone he belatedly thought he should, maybe, jump back or brace himself to a blow, but judging by the child's movement he'd have been as able to dodge the boy's arm as he would a gust of wind or a sound. Luckily he wasn't being aimed for- the bit tied round his head was, whipped off to let loose a cracking voice.

“Because you're one of us.” He rasped, bony chest heaving, small hands working at his wrists. “My body's broke but my nose works, Monster.”

“Ah!” Fuck! “No, actually, my name is Namjoon.” Why did his voice sound so placating? Wasn't that what children responded to?

“Namjoon, then. Whatever.” Hearing him speak, he might have been only a year or two younger instead of the handful he'd guessed. Namjoon waited patiently for a name, for anything, but he felt a tensing in the atmosphere as the cogs in the child's brain worked. Suspicion permeated with the slightest whiff of coal dust. “So what do you want now?”

“Uh,” Leadership! Leadership, Namjoon! “Your name, please?”

“...bargain for a man's freedom.” The hesitance remained in the precocious words, the squinted eyes, the sideways leer. “Jeon Jungkook.”

“Of Jackal Clan?” Namjoon must have sounded far too eager - the boy scowled slightly, questioning, more coal blackening Namjoon’s nose. “Well, there was word, of raids up the East Marches-” a hacking scoff in reply turned into coughing in earnest, and Namjoon quickly offered his waterskin. The boy drank beyond greedily, clear into desperate. “And Jackal Clan is the nearest, and you don't have manacle scars and are not yet spiritually broken, so-” his deductions fell on deaf ears, and so did the contents of his waterskin. Days of filth went in runnels down his shoulders and back. “Ah, yes. There is a creek near our camp-”

“ _ Our _ camp?” The words, particularly the first, were spit, a doubtful challenge. That, Namjoon could handle. He smiled coolly. 

“Yes. My associate and I have some small shelter not far from here. You are welcome to our fire.” The invitation was answered with another pause. Maybe being hospitable should trump leadership as his focal point. This was not at all going to plan. Well, sort of. He had 3 others now, didn't he? And-

“Jackal Clan isn't gone.” That threw Namjoon a bit. Not only was it unrelated, but by all reports, the Men to the East had taken the campaign against their kind quite seriously. If Jackal Clan wasn't gone, it stood before him stark naked and filthy. He felt his cool smile turn to a sideways scowl. Confusion. There was a soft sound and both startled. The larger boy had collapsed to the ground, motionless. After a shared look, they each took an end and carried him into the trees. 

He would have wandered for hours if he hadn't found Hoseok first, perched high in an Elm with steel bared.

“You looked like some fuckin’ freak bear.” He explained handily, slipping down to the forest floor with a nimble ease that still caused a jolt of boyish envy to stir, despite all their years together. “Made about as much noise.”

“I don't want to hear about noise from you.” Namjoon fired back, earning a high laugh from the shorter boy, who turned his smile on the newcomers. There was a gesture toward the large body stretched between them before his dagger was sheathed.

“S’wrong with this one? Dead?”

“Not yet.” They struggled through the brush with Hoseok leading them, pulling branches aside at need, until they came to a small clearing beside a brook. They deposited the body there. No, not a body. He was still warm. The Jackal boy stood, eyes round, wary, while Namjoon and Hoseok squatted beside the unconscious one. Hoseok blurted what they were all thinking.

“Now what.” 

Namjoon screwed his eyebrows together and went to their strung-up packs for a rag, which he dipped into the water and placed under the auburn fringe. Hoseok barked his laugh and jeered.

“He doesn't have a fucking cold, Joon-ah.”

“Well-” their bickering was ignored by Jungkook, who splashed waist-deep into the creek and began scrubbing at himself, first with vigor then, after a sharp hiss, gingerly. His wounds were still healing. “I- don't know what-”

“Woah! Joon-ah doesn't know?” He answered the teasing with an expectant look, and Hoseok sighed, dropping his trousers and wading into the water beside the prone figure. Before he could even open his mouth, Namjoon watched with horror as Hoseok hooked his arms under the boy and heaved. There was a splash and a few beats and then flailing, broken shrieking like a girl. Namjoon was aghast.

“How did you know that would work?”

“I didn't!” The proud beaming was totally unnecessary. “I just thought, well, if this doesn't work, then the body’ll float downstream,” his arm made the wavy motions of the water. “So we wouldn't ha-” Namjoon shut him up with a hiss, motioning for him to help the struggling boy out of the water. He was crying, but no tears were coming out. Severe dehydration. He fumbled for his waterskin and ran upstream a ways, filling it and returning quickly to the rhythmic staccato of Hoseok’s voice. “-from? Well, you're safe now, anyways, and once you get your strength back, maybe you can go back there? Unless you're from the Marches, cause then, I mean you might as well stick with us, since-” Namjoon kneeled beside the sopping wet head, lifted it onto his knees, and put the skin to his mouth. He cried around the gurgling water until he choked and sputtered, no choice but to drink. His instincts overtook him and he sat up- it was suddenly as if he couldn't drink fast enough. “-and I mean, what's the point? It's sad, yeah, but what's done is done and all that's left is to find home where we can get it, right?” The only sounds were desperate gulping and Jungkook washing, thankfully having caught the rag from escaping downstream. In their current situation, they couldn't spare a thing, even a rag. Hoseok clambered to his feet and put his fists on his hips. “Well, while you were out to trade in your fancy clothes, I brought down a buck.” He was beyond pleased with himself, pointing to a carcass already drained and hanging from a tree nearby. Namjoon was pleased, too.

“Get a fire started, yeah? We'll eat well tonight.” Hoseok whooped and turned to the creek, barking out at the boy, (“yah! Kid! Get a fire started - sooner you can, sooner we eat!”) who nearly shot out of the water at those words. Namjoon turned his attention to the boy with the empty waterskin and the lost eyes. They were far-off, but when he cleared his throat, a spark of awareness flickered, at the least.

“You must be Bear Clan.” He said, slowly, watching for any sign or response. The boy had soft features, a straight nose, a gentle mouth though his jaw was ground tight. “You have manacle scars and your body structure indicates months of malnourishment, but lots of walking.” His feet wore legendary calluses and his legs were by far the most healthy part of his body, corded with muscle where everything else was bony and lean. “So, the southernmost clan is Bear Clan. You have broad shoulders, too, already, so you must be older than me. I know my voice sounds-well, I'm thirteen. Are you fifteen? Sixteen? Did they keep track of years in Bear Clan, or are you more like Jackal Clan?” Still nothing. So, Namjoon did the only thing he could- he kept talking. While Hoseok cut off and skinned haunches, while Jungkook returned with dead branches and set eagerly to work with their precious twine fire bow, while the sounds and smells of a camp, a real camp, surrounded them, he kept talking. He talked about how counting moons was solved by simple arithmetic, about which traditional clan practices ought to be abolished, about how he wished they weren't crippled into a caste system. How the Men flooding in from the East were all betas, even though they sometimes expressed alpha or omega traits. How the different folk all over the world were escaping here, taking all manner of strange practices and traditions with them, though Namjoon decided that it only meant they would learn more about their kind, if they could somehow band together. He talked for weeks about his home in the city and the workings of Men while they all grew comfortable, Namjoon venturing out some odd days to passing caravans, using bits of their scant coin to procure simple clothing for their guests, moving camp every few days to keep their smoke trails random, Jungkook easily taking up Hoseok role as scout so they could take turns carrying the boy easily on his or Hoseok’s back. He talked of what he heard from his caravan visits, of the great clans falling, whatever scraps of news he could grasp until the boy grew thick and heavy enough to pose a challenge to even their hunter’s strong, wiry build. The boy volunteered to walk by sliding unceremoniously off of Namjoon’s sweat-soaked back and standing on his own amongst the stunned group. Hoseok went off on a fit hooting, punching at Jungkook as a result of some bet, while Namjoon scrambled to present him with clumsy boots cobbled from buckskin. He thought them rather clever, but the boy said nothing, only looking at them after a beat and donning them with a faint blink. Acknowledgment. Progress. They walked on.

They made games of guessing his name, though none would stick for long. Hoseok favored “Ser Brooksplutter” and “Ser Backrider,” while Namjoon often chose things at hand, like “Cloudsbreath” or “Falconwing” or “Cavernsong.” To these, Jungkook would scoff and call him a poet like a curse word, and only ever named him “Silent Bear,” though ‘Silent Bear’ had never confirmed his origin, or even spoken. Shortly after he had begun walking, at mealtime he'd startled them all again by tutting and shooing Namjoon away from the cook fire, manning the pot and ladle with a swoop of his hand and producing herbs and wild vegetables from his pockets. They didn’t keep a very close watch on him, once he was free- he never strayed far, though Namjoon noticed relief each time his eyes found the other's increasingly stocky form, after a time. His name was Wandering Bear, then. Despite weeks turned to months, passing, the elder remained a distant mystery even in their constant companionship. He never joined in when Hoseok began teaching Jungkook fighting stances, never took to the trees with them for exercise and balance routines. Instead, he stayed in the camp with Namjoon and listened to the never-ending flow of words. Snatches of personality began surfacing when Namjoon expressed certain thoughts or ramblings-the telltale wrinkle at the bridge of his nose appearing as a form of disagreement. The twitch at the corner of his pouting mouth as a smile. The upward swoop of his brows in surprise, the lowering in warning if Jungkook started getting out of hand during lessons. These and more revealed themselves, bit by bit, over time, until one fateful day the silent nagging got under Jungkook’s changing skin. A sarcastic “Umma” got thrown out, then, snapping the silent one to his feet among much laughter. That was a good year, a year of peace. 

Namjoon knew Umma had been paying attention whenever he taught Jungkook to read, but no matter how many times he extended an invitation, the boy shook his head dismissively and ambled off a ways. It was after approximately the three-thousandth time that Kook huffed his sly laugh at the retreating back. By then, Umma was coherent enough to turn, one perfect eyebrow raised in question. The child, spindly, folded a few stretched-out limbs and wore his obnoxious grin.

“Wish you would.” Namjoon wondered which of them had infused him with that irritating habit. Incomplete sentences, surety, hubris. “Be easier to uh.” His voice still clung to the affliction of squeaking, which was rather odd. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter to be continued, if there's interest...


End file.
